


Leaving the Family

by saphsaq



Series: Near-Human [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Sun, Clones, F/M, Jail, Jedi, Kamino, Military, Nightsisters, Ralltiir, Sith, Skako
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphsaq/pseuds/saphsaq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: How Darth Sidious, after Darth Maul showed some insubordination, sent out his apprentice and the female trooper again for a quest. Or rather quests, because this time they work on separate tasks.</p><p>Timeline: Not too long before TPM, because to grow Dark Jedi like Dooku and Asajj needs lesser time than to grow clones. Featuring the Darth Maul between the fanfic “Urban Legends and other Oddities” (in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/790597">Page 51</a>) and Dark Horse's comic <a href="http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Star_Wars%3A_Darth_Maul">Star Wars: Darth Maul</a> (published from September to December 2000).</p><p>Sources: TPM, TCW, the <a href="http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page">Wookieepedia</a>, glimpses of Kamino as seen in AotC and in the <a href="http://darthipedia.com/wiki/Kamino">Darthipedia</a> – as well as the air of the American action movie of the 80thies.</p><p>Unbetaed. With flashbacks. Lot's of flashbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Organics or an-organics?” Asked the Skakoan. It's artificial amplified voice was as impersonal as the room of the jail I was received. The decoration department however must have thought, a black-wood and silver-metal desk with dark leather embellishments, as well as a chair of the same materials would convey some air of dignity and details. Yet neither official nor transient had to be afraid of flattening out their behind in the seating during a negotiation. The protocol of 'Tur Balip Private Prison' is too short for that.

“I don't care.”

“You will.” The Skakoan made a final signing gesture on the data-pad he held. “Organics, female detention unit three it is then.” I wondered how fluently the motion was, because the body suit for protection against the deadly low of pressure and methane he wore, was run of the mill and thus ill fitting.

The G-2RD who had brought me in didn't wait for the encouraging nod. Immediately I felt cold steel pushing me toward a door opposite to the entrance. But “Blinds!” said the receptionist sharply. “Ay,” acknowledged the droid it's error and the bag of raw fabric I had worn on arrival was again pulled over my head. It chafed on the shaved side of my skull, while some strands from the other side stuck to my lips and tickled my nose - shackled hands are such a nuisance.

I tried - just out of habit - to track the way I was guided. But like with the way to the reception I couldn't make no rhyme nor reason of the repeated “Left!”, “Right!”, “Wait!”, “Now step!”. It could have happened all in front of the office desk to entertain the Skakoan prison official. Or it could have been a walk through the Galaxy's biggest jail. That we encountered elevators and automated doors made however the later one quite likely.

“That's it.” The fetters disappeared, the bag was removed from my head and I found myself in a small room. Before I could say a word, the mechanical warder retreated: “Your inmate-number is over the door. Better learn it.” The door closed with a soft smack, belying its heaviness.

Indeed, that was it. My home for the next hours - or years with some bad luck. A narrow oblong, 6 to 10 feet, with too little space left and right from the door to hide and give visitors a surprise. Bed, seat, desk, shelf and sanitary installation, all without sharp lines, grow massively from equal massive plasteel walls. The colour of the plastic was a dull version of beige. But perhaps that was due to the artificial light, which was moulded after a Dathomir original.

The camera-domes where in bright display yet out of reach even if I had been a Wookie. They had speakers and microphones integrated. Other sensors were invisible. Yet I knew they were there - and exactly where. Part of my task was to have memorised their coordinates and paths that precise, I could now retrace the layouts in the ground, the walls, or the ceiling like feeling for the seams of my jacket.

I didn't showcase my knowledge. I gave the door a foot-kick and made an obscene gesture to the cameras. Then I sat down on the sleeping bunk. And learned by the way, it had an inductive heater build in, which explained the lack of sheets or a blanket.

I took a deep breath. In regard of the air-condition the Skakoans had worked wonders. What filled my lungs tasted clean, not even yielding a hint of cleaners. And that with an inmate count just shy of a million! I refrained from laying down despite a sudden feebleness I felt. This task was the loophole I needed, was it not? A gift handed out by the Force itself. My spine gave in and I sat elbows on my knees, face in my palms. When I remembered how the lad had brought me before his master, doubts started creeping in...


	2. Chapter 2

_I turned, tearing apart the restraining security-belt - there were **two** empty seats in the back of the cockpit._

_The nasal tune in the speaker sounded now inquiring._

_Accident banker. Exit heiress. Exit bodyguard. Exit has such a lot of meanings. I waited for the soft shudder, indicating the ejection of an escape-pod. The Scimitar was still parked at High Port._

_After a moment of silence the voice in the speaker released a barrage of sharp and short lines - probably ordering the shuttle to stop._

_I would only last glimpses longer. But what neither my ex-lover – I think it's fair to call him such at this point of the development – nor his boss did know: I had exchanged the bosses blood-sample with mine. Most likely it wouldn't work. But if! But if, **I** would be reborn. I. And not some highbrow Sith Master. Force was I keen to learn if I was right... ___

A raspy voice cut trough my brooding with mocking tenderness: “I really wonder how much longer I have to delay the escape-pod ---”

“Maul!” I said. And would have said a lot more, probably silly stuff. But a pitch black veil swatted me.

* * *

When I awoke, I was in the Scimitar and there was again the lad, yet closer now. My lover-regained waited at my bedside, his eyes cold and calculating marbles. He wore black in a high-necked version I never seen on him before. It was so formal, it had even gloves.

I tried to sit upright, albeit it probably wasn't of any importance if I was sitting, standing or head-down floating in mid-air: “Why didn't left me behind?”

“I need you.”

“And that down and out?” I ventured a dirty grin but Maul spoke again just matter of fact: “That was for your own security.” Then he rose, making a vague gesture toward his ship's innards: “The landing cycle is already initiated ---” For a moment I thought of the day we had encountered the pirates. I had a bad taste in my mouth and my head was like a balloon. And that not just because of a comatose break of a duration only the Force knows. I shuffled off to the refresher.

Short time later, wiping from my mouth the crumbs of a snack I had grabbed on a detour to the pantry, I was back as the Scimitar had settled down. Maul stood in the gangway before the hatch. He wore an bulky overall and pushed a sibling of that shapeless garment toward me. One of the baubles at the breast plate was a counter: “Radiation?”

“Hm.”

“Radiation ---,” I mused when slipping into the protective gear, “that means ---”

Maul cut me short with a hiss: “Don't talk until I say so.”

He didn't seem to expect an confirmation, so I just sealed the helmet like he did.

We stepped out into the structure where the spaceship had landed. It was a cupola build from a sort of light-coloured, naked concrete with a fine grain. And because of the radiation it held, it might have been the housing of a power plant once. Yet, there was not much time to admire the beauty of the ambiance. Maul conjured a bunch of tubes, chords and connectors from various hiding-places which we, standing in for ground personnel, applied at the ship.

From the makeshift hangar for the Scimitar it was then a long way though a labyrinth of smaller and even smaller chambers, most of them half full with water. The radiation-counter on my chest made happy jumps. I had no markers on which celestial body we actually threaded our way, but the whole place smelled so much of Coruscant and The Works, it was as thick as the air in a Sand People village.

In what was the last room of this string of chambers Maul stopped for a moment under a waterfall provided by a broken pipe. Then he went for a fan, which did send out a stream of hot air. After a final check on the radiation counter, he pulled out of his overall and hung the piece at a hook in the wall. 

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Do the same,” Maul growled.

I did the same. My counter told me, that with the shower the radiation had dropped to a healthy dose. It might not be an explanation, but the 'water' smelled funny and the hooks where too conveniently placed to be there just by chance.

We continued our walk on the same level, yet without further security measures. The hallways and rooms became wider and wider and the young Zabrak's fast pace more and more audible. If the tiled floor deserved punishment for some failure, Maul's heels did a good job.

Eventually the lad grabbed my arm, and holding me sharply back, he stepped first onto a mezzanine of enormous size which overlooked an equal enormous hall with a glass ceiling. The glass was blind from dirt and appeared thin and grey like a dead Trandoshan's skin. On the bottom of the hall, a good hundred yards below, pipes laid a pattern of meaningless accuracy over a sea of debris.

A figure stood at the farthest end of the mezzanine, wrapped from head to toe in a dark, uncut cloak. At first I thought, we were accidentally running into someone contemplating the vistas of decay. But when Maul made a few light steps toward the figure, knelt down with his eyes firm on the ground, and mumbled what sounded like a humble greeting, I knew our entering had been pointedly ignored. And then the thing went on like the serials from holodrama authors who lube their imagination with cheap Muon Gold...

The moment Maul rose and made a few more devote steps, the dark figure whirled with an angry outcry, releasing at the same time a blue flash from its hands which hit the young Zabrak squarely. He reeled, toppled, slid several feet back. The blue streak split off into smaller, lighter flashes, never loosing focus on the body writing in agony. Maul however was not knocked out. Despite been spun into this sizzling mesh, he tried to drag his way dumb and doggedly toward his tormentor. Yet the power the dark figure emanated just pushed him down.

“What made you think you could disobey my orders, Lord Maul?! I have not lifted you out of your petty brotherhood to ---!!” Suddenly the attacker stopped and chuckled. The chuckle became a vicious laughter. With a fast gesture the cowl of the cloak was removed. I almost failed to recognise Palpatine of Naboo's well-kempt head. The laughing mouth was a glaring, red-rimmed gash, the eyes like two pieces of yellow sulphur, and as sentient as such. “She's precious --- 'must feel good to be needed'! Did you hear that Lord Maul? That's what she thinks. Too precious! Ah ---,” he snorted a final abortive chuckle, then he had collected himself. In his features was still a primeval rawness I must have missed the first time we met. “Rise Lord Maul, I will forgive your insubordination. This time.” The last two words Palpatine had spoken with the soberness of an icicle, adding in a low voice: “This time it brings a welcome improvement to one of my plots.”

The lad - Lord – scrambled on his knees and was immediately his smug self, yet refined by a reverence toward the politician, which appeared to be genuine: “If this plot requires me, you should know I'm ready Lord Sidious.”

“I never doubted that. But you ought to focus on ulterior issues - like cleaning up a black sun.” A thin smile played around Palpatine's lips and was greeted by its twin on Maul's face. “The other scheme concerns the idea about armed troops I lined out some years ago ---,” suddenly Palpatine interrupted himself, and simultaneously both men turned their heads. Their faces where despite the differences in age and heritage eerily similar as they looked at me. That was the last thing I noticed before once again a black veil swatted me. That I noticed and that I thought, the Jedi were right with frowning at attachments.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mealtime! Be ready within two standard minutes,” a hidden speaker blared. It started then in a low mumble to count the seconds backward. Which was very thoughtful indeed if I had happened to have no clock. But as the Holonet advertisement for this prison says: 'At Tur Balip you can keep your belongings, because Tur Balip keeps you.' So I had the full resources of a well-worn pilot's garb – fitting grey trousers and white shirt, brown leather boots and jacket – as well as some bling.

When the allotted two minutes were over, the door opened automatically and I stepped out. In the corridor a hose of some cold liquid swept me off my feet. It tasted as sharp as engine cleaner. Spitting and cursing I came up, trying to wipe the stuff from my face: “What ---?!”

“You have not showered,” a G-2RD, hovering above an orderly column of a good dozen females of any thinkable humanoid race, informed me. It made a motion with one of its claws and the elastic tube which had corrected my hygienic shortcomings retracted into the wall.

“Move. And don't try to play up,” the droid ordered. The other inmates didn't gave the slightest indication they've witnessed something of interest. They where tough looking, but had faces emptied by walls too long too close around them. I joined line aside a Rodian.

Now that I went without head in bag, I learned, I had only few things missed when I was blinded. Detention unit three was not catering the big races as Besalisk or the like, because our double line fitted the diameter of the corridor like a hand a glove. Light and gravity featured the average of the galaxy which made a little, albeit felt, difference to the micro-climate in my cell. Aside that, it was all the same dull beige plasteel. The walls displayed identical doors in tiring regularity. Most of them locking a cell, but some opening to service ducts. No visible – and as I knew from my preparation – also no other mark for orientation to find. The warders had their own, protected net for communication.

Our group under its flying herder marched eventless through several detention units while I dried off. The strict rules of passage at Tur Balip kept us from encountering other inmate groups with a ballet of closing and opening bulkheads. Before a double wing door the train finally stopped and through what might be transparisteel panes I could see a refectory. As a space-port lobby its size would have been the pride of every core planet. How it was outfitted probably not so much. The room was full yet not exactly packed, so its layout was in open display: two food counters stretching along the left and right wall and a huge number of long tables with seats of the same grown-from-the-ground kind like in my cell.

The G-2RD admonished: “Be ready when your inmate number is called!” and left us alone as the door opened. After passing it, our double column spread faster off than quicksilver from a destroyed time fuse, each woman heading toward one of the tables, where others greeted them. On top of the noise in this feeding lot was the call for inmate numbers, like an endless recital of droid poesy. I got hold of the Rodian's arm: “No order?”

Her conical snout made a short and fast motion toward spray valves protruding from the ceiling, which bore a pretty good resemblance to her own mouthpiece. “They gas all if one gets foolish.”

“Swell,” I said and let her go. To approach the food counter would probably not fall under 'foolish'.

“What's this?” I eyed with falling appetite the pinkish, lurid green and yellowy cubes which swam in a brown greasy liquid on trays under the heating lamps.

“Cheese. Meat-cheese, green-cheese, cheese-cheese,” said the inmate posing for a cook. In saying this, she gave each tray a poke, which made cheese and grease shudder. I still could not rake together much appetite, but I had to ate: “Okay, give me ---” Yet before I could finish my line, the cook flinched and scurried behind a towering automatic oven. I thought the din in the canteen should have justly toned down. But it had not. I turned to face the inevitable next instalment of the cheesy stage play I was now part of.

In my back a group of Dathomir natives had assembled. That they originated from this planet told me their heads which where either shaved - the young ones - or intricately braided - the old ones. And if not their haircut had given them away, there was the must even Tur Balip's air-condition couldn't exorcise. It's said, incense clears mind and space and red is the colour of dignity used at ambassador shuttles and the like. But their odour was as heavy as the red of their garb was dirty. This dirt wasn't lit up by their choice of a pointed headgear here, or a ribbon and a tail there. Nor by the women's skin with the paler shade of white, people who sneak around in twilight have. What might be the leader of the pack – an elderly, tall and angular girl with tattoos bleached by the time on her colourless skin – planted herself right in front of me. She had to tilt her head down to look into my eyes: “Let see.”

Slowly I moved my hand up toward my right collar bone. Then I let it drop, yet even slower, not forgetting the necessary finger gestures. The tribal trinkets on the bracelets around my wrist clinked.

Instead an verbal acknowledgement of any sort a mental probe hit me, a crude mind attack. At least that was what I guessed from the witch's suddenly vacant face. I kept my brain's motions at bay until I thought I couldn't hold it longer. This very moment she snorted: “A Glass Woman. Rare art, my dear.”

Was it not. I readied myself to flip into a fighting stance at any time, because soon we would run out of words. Yet we were relived from following the Path of the Warrior Woman its whole league by a security droid lowering itself out of thin air: “Disperse!”

The tall Darthomiri seized it with big eyes full of fake apology: “We were just explaining the delicacies of today's meal to a novice.”

“Disperse!”

The witch bunch did and I could finally sample my selection from the cheese buffet. I made sure which table the girls had chosen and followed them. My visit had been announced, the contact had been established – so far Maul's and his master's plan unfolded properly. Well, they where not the only ones involved in this...


	4. Chapter 4

If you ever come to Coruscant, be sure not to miss The Great Western Sea at the foot of the Manarai Mountains. They have beaches there, beaches with squeaky white sand, brightly coloured parasols and a crisp air which rolls in from the peaks. It's a lovely place and as artificial as the body of water these beaches border. Yet be warned, it's no cheap entertainment either. The ingenious act which created this one of its kind pool demands tribute wherever a visitor walks, eats or sleeps.

The lad and I were standing at the long pier of the 'Jolly Shores Water Park' watching a fleet of tiny boats bobbing in the shallow waves like a load of cut-in-half blumfruits in a cantina sink. Each boat followed its own irregular course only to arrive after the time paid for at the landing site of the pier. It was an automated fun ride, allowing you to feel yourself a sea-lord without actually being one.

The pier was full with masses of folk strictly bent to enjoy themselves. Taking rounds between the snack-booths, souvenir-booths and gambling-booths nobody seemed to object the two dark and silent figures we were. This was probably not because of the sixth variation of 'There is no Stranger but a new Friend' the on-pier band did intonate, but rather because of the long, black, hooded cloaks which hid us from the eyes of the people. Especially in the case of the lad with his stark tattoos.

However we were not the only ones with an appearance standing out amongst the leisure-seekers. There was a human, clad with the chosen austerity of a Jedi, buying himself an ice-cream. Tall, bearded and with a regal grace in the motions of his long limbs he looked a handsome man. At second look his apparel was a tad less frugal than becoming for a Jedi. The choice of the fabric and the way it was cut spoke of a man with taste and the resources to afford it. Palpatine would have liked it. The lad at my side lowered his hooded head deeper, squaring the shoulders. I heard the leather of his gloves creak over the knuckles, so tight he was closing his fists.

I turned my head back. The light dancing on the water let me squint, but I spotted him. As appointed, Palpatine sat in one of these tiny automated boats. Wearing his official face, smile and all, he brushed from his robe what might be the remnants of a cookie he had recently enjoyed. The name-plate of the boat read: 'Pride of the Western Sea'. Maul and I were in place when it reached the landing site. Waving our tickets we entered, while Palpatine paid to the droid working as collector for his second turn.

“I beg your pardon, but there seems to be no free seat in one of the other boats. Mind if we share the ride?” It was the tall Jedi, having his ice-cream given to some random child, a chubby, soft-scaled Nikto. With the fair skin of bookish people and a level face wherein long nose, straight eyebrows and the trim beard along a short jawline sat a strong accent, the Jedi was even at close range handsome. But probably older than Palpatine. Dark haired people often grey young, yet his eyes couldn't hide that he indeed have had his share of life – black and slick like stones in the wash of the sea they were.

“Certainly not my dear Sir,” exclaimed Palpatine blithely. The droid pocketed the fourth fare without hesitation and the new passenger squished his high-grown frame cultivated in the small space. The Pride jerked into motion, leaving the bustling pier back.

“Thank you, Senator. I appreciate that you could arrange to bring your acquaintances to this second meeting.” The Jedi rose a little and sketched a bow toward Palpatine, indicating, he knew to whom he was speaking as well that he was the reason why Maul's master had called. Then his gaze lingered on us, questioning, waiting.

Maul didn't seem to be inclined to rise. He just moved his horn crowned head under the cowl an inch: “Your Excellency.”

“Master would be more than sufficient.” If the man had tilted his head in response to Maul's lax greeting, it wasn't visible. “You certainly don't mind if I introduce myself.” With that the cold, dark eyes focussed on me: “Dooku of Serenno. And you must be Longpress Kahuna.”

My torso kinked into a bow which was interrupted half-ways by Maul's outstretched arm. He held the Jedi in the burning focus of his eyes. Yet Dooku took that with courtly countenance. “The Senator told me you were running the 'Body and Mind Union' gym in CoCo Town. I wonder such a flourishing business left you still time for other occupations.”

A nice double take on our eligibility for the job in general and the protection which most likely kept our shop afloat. Admittedly, with my Iridonian partner rare present, running the gym was indeed a handful... “Enough for you,” the boy muttered his mottled teeth a sharp line in the shadow of his hood.

Dooku however seemed with all due respect to disagree, because he asked for more: “I'm glad to hear that. So you think you can carry out what the Senator communicated you?”

Maul's voice was flat: “By the letter.” If you choke a Krayt, it might sound the same.

From the corner of my eye I caught Palpatine licking his lips. He pointed suddenly at a bunch of brightly blossoming water plants made of plastic: “They are beautiful, are they not? They always remind me of Naboo.” Well, water plants at Naboo might be artificial and tacky, but chances for that were as high as for the senator being homesick.

The interjection however did not dissuade the Jedi from his questionnaire. “A laudable sense of working morale.” I thought he actually leaned a bit forward, a hunch of insecurity wavering in his pebble eyes. But probably it was just a reflection of the shifting surface of the sea. "Do you belong to a group, is there any affiliation you feel loyal too?” 

I uncovered my head: “None whatsoever.” The young Zabrak at my side tensed even more. I couldn't hold that against him, since I know that I might look a wee less dapper than one could wish for. It was not the overall, sped up decline of my clone-body. This happened rather inside, in my bowls and joints. The beauty surgery however had been a cheap one and kept me in shape only for the stint at Muunilinst. Maul was spending a good deal of time to correct that, but with almost zero success.

Dooku let wander his gaze over the disarray my features were with as much expression in the perfect oval of his face as a Korriban stone idol. “I don't think tattoos or a bleach are of need. It should be suffice to shave halve of the head and give the other side a straight and a cut. Dathomir's --- youth do ware their hair sometimes this way.”

That short hesitation was nothing personal, we just didn't play in the same league of dignity. I nodded consent despite I would have rather welcomed a skin bleach to get back an even complexion: “Will do. But I have to see the layouts of the target place first, Master Dooku.”

“Of course.” Dooku's hands were long, large and elegant. They fumbled a bit as if they wanted to disobey their owner before he fished a brown data disc from the depth of his Jedi robe. I inserted it in the miniature data-pad Maul had equipped me with. The drawings and descriptions proved what I had expected. “They really must feel secure,” I said after skimming for a moment longer through the content of the disc. “A waltz.”

“You certainly like to elaborate,” encouraged Palpatine winking joyfully at me, at the two men, at the sunny day in general.

“Surveillance, internal communication network, locking system and --- just everything is a one to one copy of industrial standard fare. It's stuff so common you'll find it at any skyscraper or freighter. Maybe they use it even for those boats here. And that's because it's a simple and easy to implement concept. A dimwit can handle it.”

“That house is actually protecting its tenants from Skako's high pressure methane atmosphere,” chuckled Maul suddenly. “It needs no smart fence when no one but a native can run from the place alive.”

Ignoring him I continued: “The task needs some time for preparation, but it's doable. You'll be satisfied.”

“Fine, fine,” gushed Palpatine, rubbing his hands, “didn't I promise you we'll find a solution for your problem? Didn't I say it?”

Dooku seemed at the same time relieved and embarrassed. He stroke his beard. But before he could cast his emotion in words, I spoke up again: “That comes with a price.”

If attention would have been said price, I had collected it already. But the stakes where higher. I was acting now completely outside my part in this charade and to give that more weight, I pulled from the folds of my cloak a thermal detonator. Perhaps I should thank the boy for demanding to ware such veiling garb when lining up before his master... And for teaching me the basics of Teräs Käsi mind control.

Maul let out a soft hissing exhale and the eyes of the Jedi seemed suddenly light like amber in the sun. Palpatine however still came across as spirited and bright as the plenum of the Galactic Senate on election day. He waved a hand placating, then nodded to me. His cheeks had a rosy hue.

I let the wide sleeve of my cloak fall over the detonator: “Kamino.”

The Senator looked at the Jedi. Dooku said haltingly: “She might double for a Padawan.”

The 'Pride of the Western Sea' bumped softly against the pier. A droid scurried and grabbed the rim of the boat to hold it during disembarking. Palpatine put a hand on my knee and smiled to the two men: “As I said, this needs elaboration. Be my guest.” Then he fingered some credits from his purse and presented them to the droid: “I think we'll have another round.”


	5. Chapter 5

As expected the Dathomir witches had not objected when I sat down at their table in the refectory. But as I lifted the first food-cube toward my mouth, the leader gave the table a soft slap: “You can speak freely in here!”

“Oh?” I kept my eyes on my green cheese which appeared now, without the light of the heating lamps, as dull as the furniture. The cube was lukewarm and limp between my fingers.

“At Tur Balip nobody cares what you speak and plot,” cried one of the girls. Her squeaky voice mismatched her otherwise supple and beautiful appearance. After her exclamation she shot a fast glance to the doyenne, who batted her eyelashes in acknowledgement.

“Well,” I said, shoving my plate aside and rubbing my hands to get rid of the grease. Thankfully the cook had not dealt much of that sticky liquid. “Well, I'm ---,” I was about to go as scheduled with 'Long'. But having before my eyes now what a high-growing race the Daughters of Allya actually were, I changed plans: “I'm K.”

I expected the leading witch to probe me again, but she did not: “I'm Arnella. That is Tranii,” she placed her right hand at a stuffy girls shoulder and pointed with her left at the other women at the table, “Emha, Gianne, Gianjji, Fulve and Asajj and Zorla.” Each one named nodded courtly or moved their lips in a mute greeting. Gianjji had been the one with the squeaky voice. Tranii was the one under Arnella's hand. Zorla gave me a green, tilted glare, mumbling under her breath: “As old as dirt and still ---” The rest of the line died when she started to shovel in her cheese systematically. She was young enough to be more bangs than braids.

I let that go with the tide and tipped my head in a casual salute. Now I realised they were eight. **Eight.** One more than mentioned in the briefing at Coruscant. So much for my straying from the plan... With such deviations it's like hitch-hiking Geonosians - you think it's one, but it comes as a whole hive. Yet I couldn't help that now anyway.

“K? Your name is just K?” Breathed Tranii staring at me. She seemed to be the youngest of the bunch, with soft features and almost no tattoos.

My eyes grazed over the various bracelets on my wrist when I moved a still wet strand of hair behind my ear. “I forgot the rest of my name. K as in key.” I did send her a warm smile.

“Those Lost Sisters are a tough bunch, didn't I tell you?” Arnella's hand massaged Tranii's shoulder, “K can certainly spill a lot of stories. Long stories. Entertaining stories.”

Somehow I had the feeling neither Tranii nor I were really meant with these words. Yet I couldn't make out whom of the other witches it addressed. I said as casually as I was able to: “They're probably rather boring. But I don't mind to share them when our outbreak fails and we stuck here for years.” Some of the girls chuckled and I knew I had them. I continued strutting my stuff: “I proved what your contact told you – you've seen that I'm your sister. That it is a ship what will fetch us, goes without saying. Only thing I need now is the exact location of your cells. I've not planned to see you again until at the ship.”

Tranii smiled coyly and turned her left hand. At its palm where two numbers written. Arnella was too good a leader to foster tensions just for the fun of it: “Yeah, Tur Balip is solitary confinement. Ever-changing schedules, no work and no spare time either. Tranii and I are in detention unit seventeen.” Her head jerked to Fulve, who gave her coordinates and so the rest of the eight witches. Gianjji added a question to her numbers: “And how will we get to the ship?”

I reached for the plate to finish my now cold meal: “The door of your cell will open and light will guide your way. Just stay alert for the next two revolutions. That's twice 27 cycles at this dirt-ball here. And after dinner time, when going to bed, don't move too much. The cameras, you know?”

“Sounds nice,” said Asajj. She was a slender youth and almost as tall as Arnella. On her bald head, around each ear were six straight stripes tattooed. It was the sweet, round, highbrow head of a pupped with flickering blue eyes. She had not turned them on me when speaking up. Instead they were fixed at Arnella. “But it comes with a price I guess. Security custody on Skako instead Desolation Alley at Oovo IV. And now an outbreak --- that's something.”

The leading witch set her elbows on the table and stapled her fingers. On top of this staple she set her chin and met Asajj's glare: “You can ask Mother Talzin when we're back home at Dathomir.”

Asajj let flicker her eyes for several moments over Arnella's face, then lifted her small shoulders as if she felt cold and pouted. Over her nose appeared two long, upright puckers.

* * *

I was laying on my side, foetal ball, head to the wall. I felt tempted to prolong this glimpse of time before my actions would set the string of events into motion. But the bell for the final round had already rung. What left, was to watch out and make it though fast.

I pulled with two fingers the thin plate of the emitter from my sleeve and connected it with the biggest bracelet I wore. A nifty device, appearing like worthless kitsch, but holding a powerful secret. The lad had been mighty proud as he gave it to me. When I had asked if I could have some music in it too - just to play away the boring hours in jail - he had laughed. I adjusted my wrist a bit and leered at the tiny scale - some parameters needed tuning... I thought I could already feel how cells, corridors and units step by step did fall from the network of the prison, leaving a last imprint as if they still where connected, but forming already an isolated network of their own. A network which I could rule at leisure.

Several moments of button-pushing later, I could finally stretch my numb limbs and walk out of the door as easy as a credit left your pocket on Zeltros. I turned right and fell into a light jog. I hoped the witches did the same guided by the lights I had set up for them. I however followed with my sensor the invisible marks of the warders' network.

Calculation had predicted not more than a cycle and a quarter for my way from the cell to the rendezvous point at a waste lock in the outer perimeter of Tur Balip. I would be the last one to arrive, making sure my little herd was complete. To change levels, several of the service ducts came as handy short cuts. When keying in at my bracelet the code for opening the seventh or so door, I realised Asajj was missing. Given the location of her cell we ought to have met already – the next one to pick up should be Fulve and then... With a foreboding I checked the latest communication in the main network and felt the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck rise: 'Unexpected movement in sector 4/17'. That was me or Asajj or Fulve or any combination of us.

This moment the speakers lining the hallway came to life, uttering in Galactic Basic: “Stay where you are and wait until the warder will guide you back into your cell!”

I froze as ordered, yet only to grant myself a few seconds to evaluate my situation. If I had been the lad with his light-sabre and command of the Force, I would have cut my escape straight through the walls while disable a fair number of droids on the way. But an ordinary Mando clone had to think it from a completely different angle – head on I stormed into the service duct. Its door slammed shut behind me. A valve released with venomous hiss some vapour when I passed it. Coincidence or not, I held my breath and ripped the big bracelet from my wrist. The wall with the cables was right before me – there was not even a single spark when the main feeders did short.

Now Maul's master key was gone, but also this part of the prison was on emergency mode. To prove that, all doors of the service duct went suddenly ajar, the corridor lights got into energy-saving state and the speakers just let hear a mournful hoot. I dashed out and along the row of cell-doors, a delicate slurping sound soon overtaking me. The sound of air-tight self-sealing. Barely longer than the quarter of a cycle and the hallways and byways would become flooded with Skakos poisonous atmosphere - 'gas all' like the Rodian had said. That for a private-sector prison any dead inmate hit where it hurts most - in the bank account - was not good enough to take a chance. You don't have to be a member of the Trade Union to know about creative book-keeping.

Bereft of the electronic beacons, I followed my mental map of the place. Several crossways later the number of doors and bulkheads mismatched my remembrance – a cold flash of adrenaline shot through my veins. To prevent further errors I allowed me another second to concentrate. The noise of the speakers was accentuated by a double syncopation, which I realised my hard working heart was. The distance was nothing compared with the training courses at Kamino. But I was not yesterday decanted either. Pressing the air deep and evenly into my lung, I set again one feet before the other. The cheese rested in-peaceful in my stomach.

My biggest concern however was, that some of the bulkheads when in emergency mode might lock instead of loosen. While vaulting over a half opened one, I tried to remember what I had read about this private jail's policies – but was relieved of racking my brain when I bumped into cold metal. End of the road... No switches or handles or a hand-wheel in sight, just a solid plate filling the corridor from bottom to ceiling, parted by a tauntingly thin interstice from left to right. Panting I sat down. Actually I had planned this as a farewell to the lad and his master - but not so! Not so... There still was time to come forward with an smart idea. There had to be one...

The fiery spot appeared so suddenly, that I had not figured out what happened until a large part of the bulkhead rumbled on the ground. In the aura of the glowing gash stood Maul, bare-chested and with a half-ignited light-sabre. “Convenient, eh?”

“Said the brigand when accidentally plopping into the bed of the Zygerrian queen.” A laughter shook me so hard, I reeled when I rose. “Force, I thought you at the other side of the galaxy! What brought you here? And,” wheezing in the fight to sober up, I eyed his dress-up closer. The young Zabrak was not just bare-chested, he only wore a sort of loincloth and an utility belt with two well stocked holsters for hand-blasters over it, “in that guise?”

The lad snarled, the skin on the back of his nose wrinkling quite cute. But his free hand twitched in an impatient motion: “Where are they?”

I leapt over the still hot metal of the dissected bulkhead: “Ship-bound or missing. Two certainly missing. Yet one more than planned.”

“Eight?!” Maul's eyes narrowed. Abruptly his attention was attracted by something else. He fished for my hand, feeling gingerly the burned, big bracelet: “You didn't throw it away. Good! I'll show you at the ship how to repair --- it's too useful to be thrown away, isn't it? By the way, I brought you another useful thing. You've forgotten your fan! I thought you smarter.” He shook his head smiling. And he still kept shake and smile when he repeated in a low, pensive voice: “Eight, you said?” Then Maul shrugged and turned: “Who is at the rendezvous point will get the ride.”

“We fly out on the Scimitar? The crew of the trash freighter was paid to leave ship during maintenance. But with all the buzz now they'll stay aboard for sure, grease on palm or not.”

“They won't,” said Maul curtly. “And spare your breath, I'll fill you in.” Now I shrugged. Together we ran down the corridor.

“I'm almost done with my assignment. Just one more trip to Ralltiir, that's it. You leave with the freighter as fixed, plus myself. A YG-4210 has room enough. When you change the ship's colours at Brentaal, you'll drop me off. You can tell, you've sold me for that job.”

At Brentaal the Hydian Way I had to follow in direction of Dathomir crossed the Perlemian Trade Route guiding to Ralltiir. So far, so logical. Yet as filling as the holo-ad of a diner.

“Telling the witches I mean.” Maul's growl forced my attention back to his physical presence: a pair of swift bare feed, the easy play of sinewy legs, some narrow hips cradling the muscular yet lean torso with the rhythmically working broad shoulders, which where crowned by a nicely sculpted head brandishing some sharp Zabrak horns. A Twi'lek dancer couldn't move more alluring. “Wilco!” I was so looking forward to the time on the ship where I could rip this silly rag off him.

We had arrived in a part of Tur Balip which was only for service purposes designed. The doors were replaced by sluices of various sizes, each one with a different control panel and a foot-long security advice glowing dramatically in the near darkness.

When Maul suddenly stopped I had to reach for him to steady myself. My shirt was sweat-soaken while his skin was just warm but dry. I knew he had been going slower than he could because of me, but nevertheless I was as spent from the race as a magnetic bottle after travelling for a week on sublight. With no spare clothes to change, I could count myself lucky for the strong Dathomir aroma of my travel-companions which would blot out all staleness with ease. “On the freighter is the stuff of the crew,” answered Maul my thoughts. Well, that did settle it - they had been Human as far as I knew.

“Your turn.”

“Why?” I gasped still not calmed down after the run, “Courtesy has always been a nice streak of you, but ---”

“Go first!” Maul's voice came deep from his throat. “Those are Nightsisters.”

“Whatever.” Dathomir meant matriarchy, but you don't have to exaggerate. I took two more hearty breaths, straightened my jacket and rounded the last corner, a docile, scantily clad he-Zabrak in tow.

Since an empty hallway is a poor place to hide, even under the half-light of emergency mode, the witches had huddled like eopies in a thunderstorm where the last of the guiding lights had left them. With chalky faces, standing back to back, they scanned doors and corridor for delivery. Satisfied I counted six.

Under the continuous drone of the speakers the witches had not heard us approaching. As the first one got wind of me and craned her neck, all girls whirled around, but relaxed fast. When Maul came into sight, Zorla whistled. Arnella however scowled at me: “Where are Asajj and Fulve?!”

I pointed at the waste lock: “On to the ship.” If anything had to be prevented, then a search for the missing. It would be time-consuming enough to explain when we would stumble over the corpses of the crew behind the door.

Zorla giggled. “No objection! That boy can be sent to my cabin --- okay, after Arnella had him.” The leading witch seemed to be pleased with that suggestion. The corners of her mouth crawled upward.

I felt anger as a hard knot in my guts and was about to voice that - but suddenly my left fist made impact at Zorla's grin. A small dry creak, and groaning she staggered back, covering her mouth with her hands. I couldn't see if blood was trickling through her fingers, I only noticed Tranii's eyes wide open in fear when I whirled to Arnella.

I was certain I had not practised this Teräs Käsi technique before, but with a kick I had the leading witch on her knees, forcing her to look up to me at the same time with my right hand clasping her throat: “I am the skipper. When I say 'hop' you jump. And it is just **one** jump.” Her greyish eyes twitched and all I heard was her ragged breath. As I rose and released Arnella, I saw that Tranii had grabbed the arms of Emha and Gianne, holding them back. That however had not been necessary, because from Mauls hands pointed the muzzles of his two blasters at the girls: “You heard what she said. On to the ship.” Yet that too had not been necessary, because as the master of Teräs Käsi he was, Maul knew certainly a couple fight moves more he could execute through me.


	6. Chapter 6

“Thanks for the lift.” I said this rather to the nav comp I programmed than to the pilot at my side. We were clearing the atmosphere of Harloen, which is a bloody hassle because of the hoards of swoop race fans coming and going and giving a damn for space traffic regulations. After Dooku had picked me up there, we had exchanged barely more than ten words. Yet I felt grateful, and I thought he should know that. The last part of the task had been to get rid of the getaway ship. To fly from Dathomir to Harloen and place the YG-4210 there as wager in a race had done the trick in the blink of an eye. I had even found time for some nice shot of spice before leaving.

“You're welcome,” responded Dooku. His voice was dulcet and placid. But not so his pale face, which appeared in profile sharp and straight like an etching.

Splendid! A whole galaxy to cross but not enough fodder for conversation to spent a time as long as a caf-break at a tibanna spin-sealing plant. I counter-checked my calculations – forcetunatedly, we were about to make the plunge and leave sublight. How boring must have been flights before the days of hyperspace travel! “I hope so. I didn't deliver the exact number.” Actually I had not delivered them at all. The papers purchased at Brentaal where for a destination further up the Hydian Way, for Botajef with it's shipyards. Yet I had left this route halfway to dump the remaining witches with escape-pods into Darthomir's orbit. I had anticipated trouble when I denied to visit my 'birth place'. Yet there was none. In the end the witches had lost all interest in me, just been eager to go home. Perhaps they did land safely, perhaps not. Perhaps the Jedi know through the Force that they had arrived in one piece.

To my surprise Dooku let hear a dry chuckle. “Nobody could expect that. It's a miracle you had only two casualties.”

I looked a him and felt a smile warm my face. On Brentaal, at busy Vortrad Independent Downport a stolen ship is as inconspicuous as a droid in a Jawa's sandcrawler. And Palpatine pulled his strings obviously everywhere - the guys with the worn-out Travis Motors overalls had been fast and tight-lipped. Three cycles after arrival the freighter's colours were changed and the foreman handed me the new waybill for it. He blinked however, as I asked for a few ingots more for a serving of 'hanainan' and a bottle of Kashyyykan bitter. This was not only to hide Maul's demise. The prison food had not agreed with my stomach, and I thought supper at last ought to be a dish of one of the galaxy's best cuisines. “Professional honour, you know?” I had an eye at the docking messages of the hyperdrive ring before I continued: “Fulve is certainly dead. Tranii said so. She said, she **saw** it.”

“A lot of the people from Dathomir are more than just Force-sensitive,” agreed Dooku. His robe rustled gently as he shifted weight. This Jedi Starfighter was not made for people of his size. “And the other one?”

“Asajj? Asajj ---,” I hesitated. It was a mere hunch I had about her and somehow I felt Maul wouldn't like to hear me mentioning it. I hadn't let him from my side in cockpit or bed between Skako and Brentaal. And not only to keep the Dathomir witches' fingers off his body. But this journey did separate me permanently from him. “I can't prove it, but she could be the reason for the near failure of the task.”

“Well,” responded the Jedi thoughtful. He moved his long limbs toward another comfortable position, carefully trying not to butt his knees at the instrument table. “At Corusant you said the security installations of Tur Balip are common ---”

“Square stuff for square people. Yet, you have to be at least a bit versed --- but Asajj? She's quite young and delicate. However, she comes not across as really a kid --- if you know what I mean. She's that sort of thin girl, which ---”

“--- let you think of steel wire instead of willow branches,” finished Dooku the line for me.

I couldn't have put this better. I nodded: “Truth is, if this task had gone as smoothly as planed, I would have delivered one witch more than asked for. Of course I tried to find out who the surplus was. Tranii spilled shortly before Brentaal. They had met Asajj just the other day and it came out, they all originated from the same coven. But Asajj had mostly kept to herself. Only sometimes she had spoken of having an issue with a bunch of Warlords at a backwater world called Rattatak. I guess, they where the reason for her imprisonment.”

“Rattatak ---,” mused Dooku.

“You know it?”

“If,” he stroke his beard, “if I remember right, this planet is in the Outer Rim, more or less across from here. And Warlords, yes.”

“Does your astro-mech ---?”

The Jedi made a defensive gesture: “You know, I deactivated it.”

Oh, that... Since Dooku was neither young or crazy enough to take risks, Palpatine must have told him my navigation skills where only second to a Duros Traveller. At the other hand, to cram the two of us into a starfighter, instead using a shuttle for a traverse of the galaxy came pretty close to craziness. I selected from the star maps and soon things where clearer: “If she wants to flew directly from Skako to Rattatak, she must go down the Hydian Way until it branches into the Nothoiin Corridor. Following this a while, she has eventually to switch off to the Koda Spur.” I bend over the instrument table and keyed in the coordinates. “Of course with our detour up the Hydian Way in direction of Darthomir Asajj has a good start ahead of us. But when we arrive at where Corellian Run and Hydian Way cross, near Denon ---”

“I don't think that's necessary,” responded the Jedi indifferently, “If it's like you guess, she had her reasons and has chosen her path.”

A throbbing pain in my left hand appeared. Involuntarily I must have closed my fist for a moment or made some other motion which let my bones remember of Zorla's jaw. It had not been of harder iron than my hand, had it? But then Maul must have botched the Teräs Käsi motion... It is interesting, why someone is doing something. An issue I had pondered about before... Apparently this Dathomir witch and I had some in common. Apparently she was resolved to bring things to an end too. Termination it is called for clones. Before my inner eye emerged the picture of the Manarai Mountains. The twin-peaks of natural rock did look so bloody wrong in the midst of that ecumenopolis called Coruscant. All the time since Maul and I had arrived from our task at Muunilinst, it had not for a second occurred to me to go and contact my mates. There was no need to. **I am the batch now.**

Deep in thoughts, I must have missed that the silence between Dooku and me did stretch awkwardly. I was startled when he suddenly spoke up: “I think I have to apologize for my rudeness when we first met.”

Realising the meaning of the words I had to smile again: “It was not the first time I've been called a henchmen. Yet,” I added with purpose, “the first time in so few words.”

That resonated well with him. Amusement glinted in Dooku's eyes as he looked at me. He let hear another dry chuckle: “I suppose Senator Palpatine would seldom make such a lapse. He is too polite and easy going for that.”

This hardly matched with my experiences. But with the speedy evolution the senator had displayed, from a mere disturbing client to a Sith Lord, there might be other facets of his personality I didn't know: “He is a nice man.”

“You say a very true thing.” The amusement vanished and the black eyes looked out of the cockpit window at something in the bluish distance of the hyperspace tunnel. “Just nice. Not fire-eyed zealot, not weak-spined puppet, not greedy upstart, no over-smart professional. Of course he is a politician, of course he cares for his career --- but that is a wise limitation a lot of people failed to observe lately,” closed the Jedi vaguely menacing. 

“You think, this prison break proves how much in disarray the Republic is?”

“I am pragmatic enough to admit it served me well. It is the mere existence of a situation which resulted in the construction of super-sized private sector detention units.”

When I didn't comment, Dooku jumped back to his original thread: “Yes, the senator is a politician with ambitions. But for some reason he has made his ambitions the care for the neglected. Not in the way our order does - or rather should do it - but to give the Outer Rim worlds a voice against the heavy weights of the Core --- and that without becoming involved into any scandal of gravity so far.” Dooku leaned over and regarded me openly: “I have a question: is the Senator easy to serve? I wonder, because you seemed eager to leave him.”

Now that was interesting - and called for some Teräs Käsi shielding. “I never thought about that. Besides, I only did a few odd jobs for him.”

“I see. Some argue he is keeping in his entourage too much people of a questionable past. But livelong detention is no solution either.” Dooku turned his gaze back to whatever he saw at the end of the hyperspace tunnel. “You're of Mandalorian descent, is that so?”

“That is so.”

In the dim light of the cockpit his eyes appeared almost bottomless. “Ever been at Mandalore?”

Our first destination after the dismissal from Kamino. I couldn't even recall who had been coming forward with the idea. I think this was before we actually gave us names... Keldabe, the old capital. A dazzling thick jungle. A river which parents must have been a moat and a mire. The labyrinth of ramshackle huts always at the verge of becoming overgrown. And the people, who where like us, but so disturbingly different. “No.”

“You would like it.”

It had become better when our batch went working at a construction site near the new capital. Sundari, located in one of the white deserts of Mandalore – clean, suffused with light and endless. Then, one overcast day, from the opaque sky came rain. Not much, just a drizzle. The white gypsum sands turned into a grey, gooey and elastic mass. The next day we moved. “Yeah --- there was some holonet stuff --- 'War and Peace' --- nope, that was the one about Pantora. 't was 'Honor and Peace'. Looked a pretty place.”

“I'm afraid, I have not seen this documentary. But it's a diverse sector. Gargon, Concord Dawn --- your appearance has a lot in common with the people of Concord Dawn ---”

“Yeah, not all Mando'ade are white.” I didn't like the course our talk had taken a single bit and was about to counter with asking Dooku about his home world, about Serenno. But he beat me on the punch: “How did you know I would fly to Kamino?”

Now, the correct answer would be: a word here, a hint there and a pinch of solid guess work. When Maul brought the news of a task for a Jedi Council member who wanted to help some people he could not legally so, I had waited which topic the two Sith Lords also would discuss. Then, another thing, you can pay people like me in plain credits, but not people like Palpatine. Such people would ask you for a favour. Which would soon engross you into a merry-go-round of favour and counter-favour. But I didn't thought I had to show all my tricks to the Jedi. Especially not if he sounded like a sector ranger persuading himself a bribery was just a local welcome-custom. “Uh --- can I say professional circumspection?”

“But all by yourself? Doesn't it need a network to be a professional?”

“Don't think because you're member of a big body like the Jedi Council, of the High Council perhaps, there can't be independents.”

“I relinquished my membership of the High Council!”

I didn't know what to answer to that. Especially not to the boldness this statement was made. Maybe not only Dooku's frame was too tall for the Jedi Starfighter. Maybe he had found another place for his ambitions. He could reclaim the title of a Count I had heard. Yet for now he seemed to feel uncomfortable with our talk as well: “I suppose you're exhausted. Perhaps you like to retire.” Now, in such a small craft as a starfighter that means: strap in, stub cig, shut up. I moved my seat into reclining position and closed the eyes, carefully cradling my hurting hand in the crook of my right arm.


	7. Chapter 7

The fast-lane to Kamio is the Corellian Run. When you follow it until it tapers off near the Wild Space, you can get via Rishi to my home world. It's a neat and tidy place where you can leave your hyperdrive ring at the threshold.

“What is it?” Asked Dooku curious when I almost pressed my nose at the cockpit window for a better view at the grey fluff-ball that is the fifth planet of thirteen.

“Wrong side. We'll not see Korasa.” The Jedi didn't say a word, so I thought he might be puzzled: “One of the three moons of Kamino. Nothing remarkable though. Ice and snow, and lots of that. We had a training camp there in an abandoned outpost.”

“I see. The Wampa-training you mentioned.”

By request of Palpatine I had filled in Dooku with all about Kamino and its clone program as far as I was informed. To milk my brain down to the last, half-forgotten fact, Palpatine had recommended a truth drug. Or should I say Lord Sidious had recommended it? Sometimes the two personalities of the senator seemed to mix up quite easily. But I granted him that, the stuff made no backwash and I felt as dewy as a Ruan morning when Kamino Space Control contacted us.

Landing preparations took time, because for some reason Dooku did still held his astro-mech droid deactivated. Entering the specified orbit, adapting speed, spiralling down... Eventually we dived into the thick layers of clouds. Strong jet-streams buffeted the ship. And the wind became even stronger when we were below the clouds. Yet the light of Kamino's star lanced down through some port holes in the ever whirling, ever racing pall. A rare incident I took for a good omen. The sea-surface, moving as restless as the clouds, came closer fast and amidst the hurried play of light and shadow appeared suddenly the purlieus of Tipoca City.

“A capital, indeed,” said Dooku. “If it were not for the weather, I would say we're on Alderaan. This architecture resembles what is called the Alderaanian Overseas style.”

While growing up it was for us just 'The City'. But now, after I had seem a bit of the galaxy, I couldn't help but think of a number of traditional Tatooine plates and tajines arranged on an careless spread, grey table-cloth. But of course Dooku did have the advantage of age in his judgements.

Moments later the little starfighter was landed by his skilled hand and we approached in portly fashion the reception committee. With the help of Dooku's shaving knife and an involuntary clothes donation of the Temple, I had converted myself into a Jedi Padawan - tabard and braid and everything except a real light sabre. However, a ship always contains enough stuff for the tinkerer. A sheath let now my fan with the vibro-blades look like the Jedi signature weapon dangling from the belt. My throat tightened when I spotted a single one of the familiar, elongated silhouettes in an open and well-lit door at the end of the landing platform. A sudden rain blurred the picture as we headed toward it.

“Welcome Master Jedi, welcome Jedi Learner. We're honoured by your visit and your interest into our reef-building project, as unremarkable as it is. I am Alt Dini.” It was a she, an all-Kaminoan girl – yet of the highest caste, to indicate our visit was really considered a honour by Ruling Council and Prime Minister. A Grey-Eye with starry veined, bright irises. However, I could not make out any insignias at her gown telling her true rank. Except the large, pale collar of the Kamino nobility of course.

“Sifo-Dyas my name. This is my Padawan Lo ---”

“--- retta,” I finished for Dooku and congratulated myself for my reflexes. That I did not want to become recognised was one thing. Yet I wondered why he too used a cover-name as if this whole journey had to be kept out of the books of the Jedi and not just its prison-break part.

Fine rows of cream coloured beads, falling from a thin silvery circlet on top of the Kaminoan's head, moved gracefully against her cheeks when she bowed: “Please follow me. Before going to the Razoral Reefs you certainly want to see your suite.” Without waiting for our confirmation Alt Dini turned in a single, undulating motion of her long body and walked noiselessly down the corridor. It struck me, that I had thought only Kaminoans could walk without making a sound until I had known Maul. But I dismissed this thought as I had dismissed its origin.

The landing pad had not been one I knew. Also the hallways looked unfamiliar. Furtively I fingered from my utility belt an ultraviolet visor – this building was so new, the only marks its walls bore, were the time stamp of their production. Nobody had found the leisure yet to decorate them. This spoke of a prospering economy. Before I put the visor back I throw our benignant receptionist a fast glance too - Force! She was from top to toe decked with military signs like a veteran of the Stark Hyperspace Conflict.

The suite we were complimented in was close situated to the landing, but featured all amenities Kaminoans could think of. It was not bad, but I had already learned that small cubicles build in a way you could single-handedly change usage from living space to scientific lab to military storage booth and back was not the top of what is considered sophistication in interior design. We were meant to rest on complimentary storage-units upholstered as one-man bunks. The sensor-pads for adjusting the climate including wall-colour and light were large enough, even we humans could reach them when laying on the bunk. And there was that part of the wall which displayed at our welcome like an opaque window the ebb and flow of water, but indeed was an huge communicator. Fine black lines in the plain white walls, ceiling and floor indicated lids covering various connectors, hooks, folding desks and the like.

As soon as the door of the suite closed after Alt Dini, I put a finger on my lips. Dooku not even raised a brow. With swift steps, moving his hands ever so lightly the Jedi circled chamber, refresher and walk-in wardrobe. Unseen by him I peeked at Maul's bracelet - all frequencies dead. “For now we're alone - as long as we're in here. When we're back, you'll have to do your magic again. Kaminoans are this way. Control freaks.”

Dooku did not comment on my words, he just asked: “And you think the visit of this artificial reef in Derem City will leave not enough room for a detour to any of the cloning facilities? Baran Wu or Su Des are too far up the north? What is with Timira City?”

“I'd rather recommend to let Dini glimpse into your cards right now, so she'll show you the facilities here at Tipoca. Could be they are dated and out-grown by the other places, but when my batch ---”

“That can be done.” The Jedi turned to watch the door expectantly - then it knocked.

It was Alt Dini. And while I kept myself busy with handling the little baggage we had, Dooku went into a quiet negotiation with our host. Given the fast change of expression on the Kaminoan's face - from surprise to distrust to understanding and pride - this Jedi seemed to command a similar power over words like Palpatine did. However, I don't not know if he used a mindtrick perhaps to bolster up his tongue.

The next moment Dooku motioned me to come. Guided by an amiably chatting Alt Dini we went to board one of the mono-rails pumping the streams of quarterly commuters from the housing satellites to the work space in the town's core and back. Several Kaminoans in soldierly garb dotted the crowd. Obviously the construction program had not kept up with the growing army and so it spilled over into the dormitory towns of the civilians. The destination pointer of our train read 'Tipoca City Military Complex'. An image of three aiwahs waiting to no avail at the landing platform appeared before my inner eye.

* * *

I stared down from some second-storey hight through a window opening to a dining hall where countless clones of different development states took their meal in shifts. After a moment I realised it was not just 'a dining hall' but the 'Lucky Feed Lot', the dining hall of my batch's old days. Now enlarged and refurbished to cater a number of hungry chops as big as in the Tur Balip Private Prison refectories. Like the one I had been eating out. I felt a bit of envy welling up when I realised the rest of the troop accommodation had most likely received a similar update. 

Our host didn't disappoint the trust Prime Minister and Ruling Council had set into her to present Kamino's achievements. I wondered briefly if Alt Dini would have showcased the artificial reefs as a hope of relief for the starving masses of the galaxy with the same verve and cleverness. She had not pointed us to the well organised recreational quarters with the sleeping pods in the first place. Nor to the clones excelling in smartly constructed battlefield simulation rooms. No, Dini had put us right on to the gist of the clone program: quantity.

I could have bet the Jedi had never seen such a pile of people of Mando'ade descent in one spot, let alone a pile so homogeneous. I lifted a hand and put it in an concealed gesture of salute at the window pane. “--- and so we have been able to reduce the discard quotas significantly,” spun Alt Dini her yarn. “That in fact made Tipoca the leading cloning facility. We're now bigger than ---” The window felt cold - **the clones where only male**. I leaned slightly to Dooku whispering: “I need to leave the party for half a cycle or so.”

“Your hand?” The Jedi whispered back.

Thunderstruck I stared at him. But what I read in his black eyes was just a hint of compassion, not suspicion. “Ah --- yeah, my left.” I continued suit to prevent more questions: “I'll catch up with you and Dini around the corner.”

“She will not know you're gone.”

I smiled a thanks and trod off as gladly as a Nuna after Life Day.

Luckily the Kaminoans build their cities as logical as they have build their race. So I was after some right and left turns before the door I was looking for. The military living space behind it was dark by ultraviolet light.

“Uded sso oii - close the door,” an aged, quarrelsome voice said.

“Ay, Commodore Uclo,” I respond in Basic and turned with a swipe over the sensor pad the light to standard visibly.

He was frailer than I did remember him. From milky eyes in a haggard face the Kaminoan stared at me, mouth gaping. “You!” He wiggled to stand up, but failed. Gesturing impatiently he demanded: “Over here! I can't walk.”

I complied and with thin and gnarled fingers We Uclo inspected me: “Better than I expected, better than I expected after this long time --- okay, this is --- spent --- yet still in working order --- well kept, well kept.” At the scars from the beauty surgery behind my ears he stopped: “Cheap work! Poor work! --- But what an adaptation! Did someone talk you into this or was it your own idea? Like this clothes? From watching the holonet?” A wink and a smirk accompanied the questions.

“I'm the last one of my batch, Commodore.”

“Of course, of course,” he responded quietly and slumped in his seat, “100% - 10% - 1%.” Yet the next moment the old Kaminoan was agitated again: “But you! The long-term survival quote! They wont even get near it with their new program!” His hand cut in an sharp underlining gesture through the air. “Did you see the clones?”

“I did, Commodore.”

“Did you notice, they almost don't interact. No talk, no dynamic, no self ---”

“Single gender if I observed right, Commodore?”

“Ha! And then some,” Uclo nodded gloomily. “It's called 'Focussing', 'Slimming'. I call it watering down the whole idea for saving a few lousy credits! What is wrong with material as diverse as possible? Let them mix and spread, mix and spread --- A new program, ha! They've even implanted a kill-switch. Clones --- can't tell them from droids nowadays.” He held my hands in an almost desperate grip. “But you!”

“Is the Termination still where it was?”

“Sure it is, sure it is. Security Sector Six. Right down the hallway from Decanting and the med-point. And that's were we will take you! A bit brushing up --- don't be afraid, you're in good shape --- I can see it, I'm not that old --- I've been sent into retirement --- oh, I know why!” He laughed grimly. “But with you, the scales are turned!”

“Permission to leave, Commodore?”

“Where is my pad? I have to write.”

When I turned the light back to ultraviolet he was already scribbling away. I closed the door noiselessly.


	8. Chapter 8

“Thanks for the lift.” I had said that before to Dooku, yet with more emphases.

He responded as placid as ever: “You're welcome.”

Since nothing more left to say and time was running out, I dropped to the ground and did, with the help of my hands and knees, crawl off. As planned the shadow of Dooku's ship gave me enough cover to reach the rim of the landing pad unseen. Without looking back I rolled over the low wall of the kerb. An almost complete darkness embraced me. I reached for the next best girder in the forest of steal holding the platform to lower me on a maintenance gantry. No sound broke the swash of the waves down below and the howl of the wind in the poles. A Jedi Starfighter is as soft-spoken as it's masters are. Only a light shudder of the rodding told me Dooku was gone. All I had to do now, was to climb toward my final destination...

Then I smelled it. Into the wet and metallic taste of the algae growing close to the tide-mark had mixed something warm and spicy. After that it was not hard to miss. A tiny, red-glowing point. I clambered into its direction. Maul was lolling at one of the cantilevers. The black garb he wore – tunic, trousers and heavy boots – seemed to absorb what little left of light under the landing platform. Only his face was in a low frequency lit by the uncertain glow of the cigarette. When I sat beside him, he removed it from his mouth with one of his short and precise motions and proffered it me. On his hand gleamed wet a bacta patch. But whatever wound it covered, it didn't seem to hamper him. I think I shook my head. He exhaled some smoke, nodded and put the cigarette back between his lips.

“How was Ralltiir?” I managed finally.

“A waltz.” Again an exhale and the gleam of the bacta patch. Slowly Maul rummaged the pouches of his trousers. Then he proffered me another thing, a silver-metal cigarette case: “Sure you don't want one?”

“Sure.”

“Too bad.” With a flick of his wrist the lad throw the case into the water. It was a shiny spark until it disappeared in the light-less depths of the Kamino sea. Asa the blue-skinned Chiss had once said he would never become separated from it except by a blaster bolt. Probably a light sabre was as good as that.

Another exhale: “Know Galidraan?”

“Outer Rim,” I responded mechanically. “Thanium Sector. Place of some ugly butchery ---”

“Yeah, between Dooku the Jedi and a flock of Mandalorians calling themselves 'the true ones'. A complete failure for the Jedi right from the begin.” Maul chuckled quietly. “I really had expected he would terminate you with his own hands.”

“You would have,” I said, and there might have been a chuckle in my voice too, “you would, laddy. Just to be sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Early drafts circulated in a private mailing-list. First published here.


End file.
